But What Does It Mean?

Last night I had what might be my best dream ever. Jon and I were pursuing some sort of nameless, faceless bad guys through our house. Although it wasn't necessarily our house, but it was. You know how dreams work. It was a 2-story farmhouse but it was all white inside. And it was in Maine. We lived in it, but not anymore. We were in the midst of moving. But let's not get bogged down in the details.

We were running and gunning, Alias-style through the house. Chasing what I'm imagining now were cut-throat mercenaries dressed all in black. We were crouching around doorways, pressing ourselves thin up against walls, motioning to each other with our guns that it was "all clear". We snaked our way around the second floor and tiptoed, cat-like, down the creaky wooden stairs. We passed through the kitchen, carefully surveying every inch of the space. My gaze finally rested on the sink and I burst out with—

"Jesus Christ, what a mess!"

And put down my gun and started washing dishes.

Swear. To. God.